


Enough

by Anonymous



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Anxiety, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Medication, Not Beta Read, Panic Attacks, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27173275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sometimes, her anxiety grew and grew to a bursting point that couldn't be quelled by deep breaths and daily medication alone.A Corpse Husband/Reader one shot, inspired by an anonymous request posted by user corpseglider on Tumblr.
Relationships: Corpse Husband/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 476
Collections: Anonymous





	Enough

**Author's Note:**

> This is a request fill inspired by an anonymous request posted by user corpseglider on Tumblr.
> 
> Anxiety looks different for everyone who is affected by it, and I only know what I've experienced. I've been both medicated and unmedicated, and have a close relationship with anxiety attacks.
> 
> Take care of yourself, folks <3

She shakes the big opened orange bottle in her right hand to dump out a pile of tiny pills into her left palm. It was a part of a routine, a weekly routine in place which helped with her control of her mind and life and, by extension, her anxiety. Its monotony was welcoming and soothing; every Saturday, she would open the containers of prescription pills—antidepressents and antianxiety pills, both used to dampen her body's unnecessary production of anxiety, for a threat that wasn't there—and place them in her daily pill containers. Two pills a day, both in the evening, with a tall glass of cool and crisp water, are what kept her mostly sane.

Only mostly, though, because sometimes anomalies happened.

It could be a stressful day at her classes, a stressful commute on the city's public transit, and sometimes it could be stress from nothing at all. But sometimes her anxiety grew and grew to a bursting point that couldn't be quelled by deep breaths and daily medication alone, which was when she would grasp the tiny bottle of pills into a shaking fist. 

The small bottle sat next to her rows of daily meds in her bedside drawers, standing sentry and waiting to swoop in and normalize her brain function when everything became too much. A fast-acting prescription savior. When gasping breaths didn't bring enough oxygen to her brain, when bright black spots bloomed in her vision, when the panic became overwhelming and panic showed itself as tremors and shakes, that's when the small bottle would be clumsily opened and taken from.

It's Saturday evening, Corpse had been nervous-slash-excited about the Among Us stream happening tonight, and he wouldn't sit still. This wasn't his first stream with the crew but she knows as well as anyone that anxiety isn't linear and sometimes nerves can transform. He had been pacing from his streaming setup in their bedroom to the kitchen, to the living room, anywhere to abate his nervous energy. 

She has been sat on the couch in the living room, back against the armrest and in full view of his pacing, thumbing through a well worn novel plucked off of the coffee table. She was really only half paying attention to it since her attention snapped back towards him every time he passed by. 

He's on his way back to the kitchen this time when she grabs his right wrist as it passes by her head. He whips his gaze to her.

"Hey," her voice is gentle, "you doing alright?"

His gaze lingers at her eyes, looks down to the hand grasping his wrist. Slowly he turns his gaze forward, towards the kitchen, letting out a quiet sigh. "I'm not sure why this is making me so nervous."

She gives him a small smile. "You know as well as I do that minds are the worst." She gives his wrist a gentle squeeze. "It'll be okay, baby."

He turns fully towards her and extracts his wrist from her grasp to lean down towards her. His folded arms rest on the back of the couch, and the two are face to face. A small smile crosses his face.

"I know you're right and you know I know you're right." His right hand raises to cup her cheek. "It kind of feels different with all of this attention I've been getting lately." 

She closes her eyes and leans into his touch. "I know." 

He extracts his hand. "This is going to sound like a dick move, but could you maybe not be around when I'm streaming tonight?" He hesitates. "I don't know why the thought is making me nervous now—"

"Hey, it's okay, you don't need to explain yourself." She rests her chin on the back of the couch. "I can hang out here and watch something on my laptop. Or read, or something. No big deal."

His eyes close briefly before openening up and giving her a slightly pained expression. "Baby, I'm sorry—"

She leans forward to give him a shut up smooch, then backs away just as quickly. "There's this new show I've wanted to watch on Netflix that you wouldn't like." She gives him a teasing grin. "Honestly, watching it with you would be torture—"

He barks a laugh, standing up to walk into the kitchen for a glass of water. "Fine." As he's filling it up, he turns back to her on the couch. "I'll keep the door shut, if that's okay with you?"

She closes the book and trades it for her laptop on the coffee table, powering it on. "Sorry, what was that? I can't hear you over the sound of me being able to actually enjoy a show you wouldn't like—"

As he passes by her to head back to the bedroom, he captures her chin in his hand to give her a deep kiss. She melts into it, arms reaching up to play with his hair. 

Pulling away, he saunters back to the bedroom. "Try not to have too much fun, babe," he shoots over his shoulder.

She lets out a giggle and turns back to her laptop. 

\---

It's getting later, the sun having gone down an hour or so ago. She is still engrossed in the Netflix series, a funny show containing her favorite type of humor. Her eyes are drowsy; she'd had an early day doing homework and some freelance work before she had settled in to the couch a couple hours prior. The homework was a tedious research essay and had taken her a week to complete; it was worth thirty percent of her grade.

It's not time to take her meds, which is good, since the door to the bedroom is still shut. Her pills are shoved away in her bedside table and she doesn't want to have to bother him by retrieving them just yet. 

Yawning, she shuts her laptop and reaches for her cell phone. It had been put on silent, and she had gotten some notifications since then. Most were nonsense, a couple were texts from friends, but one sticks out to her. 

Essay assignment: incomplete.

_What?_

She squints harder at the screen and pulls up her school's online portal. Navigating through the tabs, she pulls up the class's homepage.

Assignment: incomplete.

But that can't be right, can it?

She had submitted it hours prior, correct formatting and citation page and all, but soon realizes the errors of her ways after studying the instructions more carefully.

_She had done the wrong week's assignment._

It wouldn't have been a big deal, but this essay was worth a substantial amount of her grade. Thirty percent. The difference between passing the class and losing her scholarships.

She wasn't the best at school but she _tried_. Her boyfriend knew she tried, too, and encouraged her studies, even if he didn't agree with institutionalized learning.

But this? This was a stupid mistake. So, so stupid.

Her breath starts to come to her in little whimpers. She stands abruptly and begins to pace. 

It'll be okay, she'll be fine. She can email the professor...

But her thoughts begin to spiral. The professor would probably not excuse such a silly mistake, her submitted essay wouldn't be enough of an attempt to make up for possible missed points. 

It wouldn't be enough. She would fail the class, possibly even lose her financial aid—

Her self-sufficiency would crumble, her pride going with it. 

Her attempts wouldn't be enough. Her whimpers transform to little gasps, and nauseous unease begins to fill her gut. She runs to the bathroom, phone forgotten on the couch.

After clicking the bathroom door closed, she leans over the toilet, hoping for the nausea to pass. Sweat had bloomed across her forehead, and her breathing was becoming heavier. Hoping that water would help her feel better, because it sometimes did, she stumbles to the vanity and grabs at a glass to fill it up, holding it under the cool stream.

But even her shaking hands couldn't properly hold onto the glass as she tried to fill it from the tap. It clumsily falls from her grasp into the sink, splintering and shattering as it hits the vanity.

She needs her pills. She needs them and she needs him but she doesn't want to disturb the stream happening behind the closed door. He's probably relaxed, in the thick of things, comfortable with the other players and audience. She's an adult, damn it, and she doesn't need to disturb her boyfriend for something as inconsequential as this. But the panic is so real that it hurts her chest.

She sinks to her knees, grabbing the edge of the counter for support. Her eyes are starting to leak tears, and she turns to pitch forward onto the bathroom floor. She lies there in a ball, forehead pushing into the cool tile, her hands covering her head, knees tucked into her chest. Heavy gasping breaths wrack her body. She can't even fill up a glass of water properly, can't do her homework properly, can't do anything right—

A low voice reverberates through the house, a distant door opening.

"I heard glass breaking, what—"

A hand pushes open the bathroom door.

His voice was heavy and cumbersome in her ears, like it was trying to trudge through a field of mud. She kept on trying to breathe gasps of air, but it wasn't enough, _she wasn't enough—_

A figure kneels in front of her and hands set themselves on her shoulders, trying to get her to sit up.

"Sweetheart, hey, hey, what happened?" He tried to get her body vertical, but she keeps on slumping forward into his lap, trying to curl more into herself. "C'mon, baby, let's sit up. Okay?"

Her fingernails dig into his jeans while she grasps at staying conscious. Black spots start to dance in her vision, her wheezing and tears not doing enough for her panicking body.

At this, he guides her up to lean her back against the vanity. "Hey, shh, it's okay," he murmurs under her gasps. "Let's breathe together, okay?" Both of his hands gingerly hold her face, thumbs brushing away tears and fingers gently cupping the back of her neck.

They were close, sitting like this. Her legs were splayed out clumsily over his lap, while her hands reached up to grasp his wrists. She tries to keep her focus on his breaths, ins and outs in deep, deliberate actions, but it was hard. She couldn't stop heaving. More tears spilled over, gliding down her cheeks, but those too were wiped away by his thumbs.

"Were you hurt?" he asked gently, clearly having seen the broken glass in the bowl. 

She only shakes her head, hair sticking to her damp face. Her mouth opens to gasp some more breaths, but then she manages, "Meds."

His eyes widen and he stills his movements. "Shit," he says under his breath, "baby, I'm—hold on," and he shoots up, nearly running out the door.

He's back not even a minute later, her pill box and that blessedly tiny pill bottle in his hand. A full glass of water accompanies them.

"Which ones? Which ones do you need?" He kneels down in front of her, eyes wide with strained worry. He sets the water down and begins to open the small bottle.

She reaches out with clumsy fingers at the tiny bottle and gasps out, "Please—" while shakily holding up one finger.

The message is clear as he successfully opens the bottle and presses a single pill into her waiting palm. She brings it to her mouth and washes it down with the offered glass of water. He holds it for her, gently tipping the liquid into her mouth. 

At its completion, he sets the water down to hold her face in his hands again. Her wheezing is still present, but her eyes at least seem clearer than they did before. He leans forward to rest his forehead against hers, and her eyes dart down to watch his own chest exaggerate his breathing for her to match.

Her eyelids begin to droop a few minutes later, when the worst of her attack seems to be behind her. She's still sitting against the vanity, still has her head supported by him. 

Her eyes begin to close.

"Baby, hey, let's get you up, okay?" he asks, hands moving to grip her elbows as he begins to stand up. "We gotta get you to bed."

Her eyes unfocus and refocus on his face as he hefts her up. "I don't want to go to sleep."

He shushes her. "Trust me, you'll be more comfortable in our bed than on the bathroom floor."

Her eyes droop again as she's led to their bedroom, his right hand around her shoulders and left hand grasping her upper left arm. Secure and safe. "Aren't you..." she trails off, "aren't you streaming? I don't wanna—"

He stops to turn and look at her with an incredulous look. "You come first, always. I heard the glass breaking and hopped off the stream." He sighs. "I didn't even think about your medication, baby, I'm so sorry."

Her voice is no more than a murmur. "S'alright, 'm fine."

He gives her a disbelieving look. "We're past that, don't you think?" He lets out a huff of a laugh, exasperated, squeezing her shoulders. "What happened?"

"School," her tired voice supplies, "but I don't wanna...not now."

Starting to move back to their room once again, he lets out a long sigh. "Baby, you work too hard."

She smirks up lazily at him. "So do you."

They both slowly enter their bedroom. She is overtaken by a huge yawn, and he looks down at her.

"You need to rest," he murmurs. "Let's go to bed."

Her eyes shoot to his. "But you're not done streaming—"

He's shaking his head at her before she's even done with her sentence. "I mean, I definitely am now. Don't worry," he shoots her a glance. "Don't even try me."

She looks devastated. She doesn't want to be the reason he stops streaming, for a reason so unimportant—

"I'm okay, I swear," she attempts to convince him. "Really."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Really," he deadpans. He gently pulls her in for an embrace. "It's okay, baby, please let me take care of you."

Her head is supported by his chest, and it rises and falls in sync with his breathing. Her mind settles.

"Can you stream while you hold me?" she murmurs, head nuzzling into his chest. "I like it when I can hear you. It's..." 

Soothing. Comforting. Everything right in the world.

"Please?"

He seems reluctant to her not resting in their bed, to her staying up longer than she should, but also knows how stubborn she can be. His stubborn, stubborn baby.

He huffs out a sigh. "Alright." A hand comes up to cradle her head from behind. "Alright," he repeats, "but only for thirty more minutes."

That's enough, she figures. They both know it's a compromise, but it'll provide enough soothing comfort for her anxiety to be further abated and locked away.

He pulls away, his hand in hers, and leads them both to his desk. He sits down in his chair and she follows, straddling his lap to nuzzle her face into his neck and press her chest against his.

He grabs her palm then and presses something into her hand. Her pills, the ones she takes every night. She straightens and pops them into her mouth to swallow them dry, settling down onto his chest immediately afterwards while muttering a thanks.

She can feel his inhales and exhales, the rumble of his voice through his chest. It's so soothing that she doesn't even attempt to stop her drooping eyes from closing.

He turns his head to give her a kiss to her hair. "Thirty minutes, then I'm logging off," he repeats. His voice only comforts her further. "Your negotiation skills are brutal," he says with a smile in his voice. 

"Mmph."

His laugh doesn't even startle her; she smiles to herself as he logs back on, apologizing for his extended bathroom break to his friends.

Twenty five minutes later, she's wrapped in his arms underneath the sheets of their bed.

It's more than enough.


End file.
